


Invictus

by sinclairly



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinclairly/pseuds/sinclairly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon Alex Lannon’s death, his daughter returns to Vega for the funeral. </p><p>AU set twenty three years after season one. Two part.</p><p>Michael/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invictus

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Titled Invictus, based on William Ernest Henley’s epic poem, which this story is inspired by the poem's last two lines: “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”
> 
> other: My OC's name is Xanthippe, pronounced "Zan-thip-ee" from Ancient Greece, meaning yellow horse.

**Part I**

_“_ Divinity _”_

 

* * *

 

“Your father is dead.”

On the balcony of a marbled tower spiralling wondrous heights and sizzling in the heat of the sun, Xanthippe lounged in the pink water, and tendrils of thick, dark blonde hair spilled over the porcelain tub.

“I know,” Xanthippe said. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped onto her damp shoulders. A flock of birds chirped distantly, and the sun continued to scorch.

A variety of wild flowers and thick green vines wrapped themselves up around the balcony and its doors. There was something sweet about the late summer air; something unfamiliar and quiet, perhaps almost cold—

The bathwater was freezing.  _How long had she been lying there for?_

A shadow had cast over the ground, where a body had come to stop in the doorway; teetering with anxiety.

Xanthippe kept her gaze ahead at the mountains, admiring their graceful slopes and beauty and power. She often imagined herself as a mountain; unmoving and deadly.

The body in the doorway shifted impatiently, expectantly.

She closed her lids for the shortest of moments, and stood up, exposing every inch of naked skin to the air, the mountains, the sun, and more importantly, to the body in the doorway.

A gasp of—excitement, anticipation, wonderment.

Xanthippe examined her own skin through a wet blur: previously unmarked, now her body was a canvas of black ink that coiled around her chest and back, dancing across her arms and abdomen and continuing down her legs.

The marks—though she couldn’t read them—meant only one thing.

Alex Lannon was dead.

 

 

X

 

 

The letter was creased by years of quiet obsession, hands clutching for something more than words.

 

_My name is Alex Lannon. I’m your father, and these are the hardest words I’ve ever written._

_When I was a boy, I was given a letter by my dad, a note that took me years to understand. My hope here is that the message is clear; your father loved you and never wanted to leave you. It breaks my heart to say goodbye without ever meeting you, that’s why I had to leave, not just for you, but for all of us._

_I do this to give you what I never had; a normal life, family, happiness – things in short supply. But if you’re reading this, then chances are everything I’ve done would have been worth it. I love you. More than you’ll ever know._

_Your father, Alex._

 

Xanthippe moved her fingertips over the letter; feeling the brushstrokes of desperate, soulful words. It wasn’t entirely true—she had met her father once, when she was eight years old, but as Evelyn once explained, the letter was written in a time before her birth, when her father’s life hung in the balance.

Her father’s life didn’t hang in the balance anymore.

 

 

X

 

 

Sometime later, Uriel entered her chambers, clad in Helena’s traditional flowing garb, her vibrant blonde curls pinned up. In her twenty three years of life, Xanthippe had never seen Uriel unkempt in her presence, but perhaps two decades of time was nothing to an Archangel.

“Have you eaten?” Uriel asked.

“Yes,” Xanthippe glanced up from her bed. She had been dozing in and out of sleep for hours, sometimes waking to find her cheeks wet, sometimes dreaming of a golden light that on closer inspection looked more like heavenly fire.

Uriel sat on the edge of the bed. A comfortable silence passed between them. Uriel reached out and brushed Xanthippe’s cheek. “You’ve been crying,” she said.

“It was unavoidable,” said Xanthippe. “I mourn for the man I never knew, and now I mourn for the future I can no longer have.”

“Saving mankind was always your destiny,” Uriel said proudly, “your father was the chosen one, yes, but you are the saviour. My father knew the importance of women, and was utterly disgusted by man’s treatment of them. We were his favourite. My sister and I; his first creations.”

Xanthippe exhaled. Despite an ache of paternal love that was never fulfilled, she was grateful to her father, for his trials and tribulations, because it meant that she would never have to deal with any of this angel war _bullshit_ , and now—now with his death, the marks were a burden to her, and her alone.

“I love you, Xan,” Uriel said boldly, “Evelyn and I, we both do. We’ve come to see you as the daughter we never had but always wanted.”

Xanthippe admired Uriel’s beauty through blurry tears. The queen and the Archangel had raised her from birth, taught her everything she knew. Evelyn was often too cold, and Uriel was often too sentimental. They balanced each other out.

“And I you,” Xanthippe sat up suddenly, “you and Evelyn, you’re the parents my mother and father could never give me. I owe everything to you both, and Helena.”

Uriel smiled, and it could only be described as radiant. She said, “Speaking of your mother, she’s insisting on a traditional Vega funeral, a cremation.” There was distaste in Uriel’s tone, perhaps apprehension.

“She knew him better than I,” Xanthippe said.

Uriel continued, “And she wants you to attend the funeral, in Vega.”

Xanthippe stilled, then she spat, “Absolutely not.”

“I said you would say that but—”

“I was sent here for my own protection,” Xanthippe continued, “if being the Chosen one’s daughter didn’t make for a big enough target, now I’m a walking crucifix; everyone will know—Gabriel has spies everywhere.”

“I told her it was dangerous,” Uriel said, when Xanthippe’s wrath had quelled, “but her grief is clouding her judgement. She wants her flesh and blood.” Meaning, she wants _Alex’s_ flesh and blood.

“She has that, in Vega.” Her mother had married an influential businessman from Helena, uniting their cities, and siring three heirs.

Her father had taken to the road sometime before her birth with two angels, fighting the good fight with a hummer truck and a barrel of weapons. His angels, she’d seen them once, she recalled, when she met her father for the first and last time. The memory grew hazier every day.

“I don’t like the thought of you going to Vega either,” Uriel said, “but I am your protector, Xan, and this is the funeral of your father. Evelyn is not supportive of this, but if you want to say goodbye, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“No,” Xanthippe said. “I’ll mourn him appropriately, here, and then I’ll see my mother when she can be bothered to visit.”

“You don’t have to make this decision right now,” Uriel said. “But one day soon, we’ll need to talk about your marks, about what they mean.”

“I know there’s a religion about the Chosen one, I know people worship him as though he’s the creator of all mankind, and I know that people have died for him and blood has spilled for him,” Xanthippe whispered, “but the marks mean nothing to me.”

“That’s your grief talking,” Uriel rose and walked towards the door. “This is your destiny, Xanthippe.”

“Do you ever wonder,” Xanthippe called out, just before Uriel left the room.

“Do I ever wonder what?”

“ _Your_ father—did he leave you, or is he dead?”

Uriel looked terse, as she replied, “Either way, we’re on our own.”

 

 

X

 

 

The mourning period in Helena began with clothes of black, and the intricate braiding of hair, woven with freshly grown vines and flowers that would be replaced upon their withering. The Eternal Candles were lit during a melodic ceremony of prayer, where they would be kept lit until the mourner was ready to douse the fire and embrace acceptance. Gifts to the mourner were infrequent, but often prayers written on golden cloth were left outside the mourner’s room to ‘shine a light where the darkness might consume.’

It was, by Helena’s account, considered _scandalous_ to invite yourself to the mourner’s house without notice or invitation. But, Xanthippe was the Queen’s ward, and Uriel had been training Helena’s army since the age of ten, so offense to Helena’s most protected princess was unlikely.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

Xanthippe was on her knees, bent down in prayer; admiring the low light of the moon—the sun’s twin, the only two things untouched by mankind and its infernal angels.

Sometimes she wished—although Evelyn told her not to wish for things, because ‘ _expectation is the foreground of disappointment and bitterness_ ’—that one day she might be as untouchable in the angel war as the sun and the moon.

It was warm despite the darkness, and her skin was slick with humid precipitation. Xanthippe wondered if she should remove the thin material wrapped around her body. _“Naked worship is the purest way to honour mother earth,”_ Evelyn once said.

The balcony doors were swung open and Xanthippe was knelt before them, allowing herself to be swallowed by the sky’s shining orb. It was not the first time she wished to be consumed, but she was smart enough to never say those kinds of words out loud.

‘ _Allowing yourself to be understood is the first, most foolish way to be conquered_.’ Another childhood mantra, courtesy of Uriel.

A cold, sinister fear stole her calm. Xanthippe watched, still, as the moon’s pure background was corrupted by a black moving circle. The circle was growing in size every second, coming closer, heading straight for Xanthippe. She was on her feet in seconds, grabbing her Empyrean steel sword from the wall where it hung.

Years and years of training could have been easily forgotten without discipline—she had never fought an angel that wanted to kill her before, only Uriel.

Xanthippe blew out a nearby candle, plunging her room into darkness. She pressed her back against the wall beside the balcony doors, waiting. Eyes closed, her ears keened. The air was changing; moving under pressure, creating a whistling breeze. The angel was close. Her grip around the sword tightened.

There was no room for doubt. She had to face this. Perhaps she would finally be graced with Gabriel’s presence.

The moment dragged torturously, and a gust of wind blew fallen leaves and flowers into her room with the force. And then the tide of wind reached its peak and disappeared without momentum. Hard feet landed on her balcony. Xanthippe braced herself.

She waited for the most opportune moment, and then—

The dark shadow stepped into her room, and Xanthippe swung the sword with all the force she could muster. To fight without anger was key. Not to her surprise, the dark shadow—a man—blocked her sword with two of his own. She suppressed righteous anger, knew that life was a blessing, not a right. She drew her sword from its entanglement, and threw it across the room. The blade slid into the wall with ease.

The attacker, shrouded by the shadows, inclined his head just a fraction to see where the sword had gone, giving Xanthippe enough time to throw her body into a series of back flips, manoeuvring around several marble statues and valuable vases that Uriel gifted her every year. She reached the wall in moments, grabbed her sword and spun around to face him.

He was right in front of her. _Silent, but deadly._

Xanthippe swung for him again, and he countered her blade with one of his. The other blade swiped for her exposed, naked stomach, but she jumped backwards in time. Anger threatened to take over. Somehow, it had been easier to fight Uriel without her judgement being clouded. She had to even the playing field as much as she possibly could. She scraped her blade across his and threw her weapon aside.

Taking advantage of his open stance, she kicked the apex of his chest—an angel’s natural weakness—and he went flying backwards. She clambered onto his massive form, grabbed his wrists, and crossed them against his collarbones, trapping his neck with his own blades, using his own grip. Aware of his godly strength, she pushed her knees onto his wrists, holding them in place.

His utter silence in the wake of her heaving chest was goading enough. He wasn’t fighting back; she was alarmed.

“Your name,” Xanthippe hissed. She expected him to laugh, and say _Gabriel—_

“My name is Michael.”

Xanthippe kept her composure. Inside, she reeled.

Michael, Michael, Michael—an Archangel, Uriel’s brother—Gabriel’s _twin_. One of her father’s angelic comrades.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, pressing the blades closer to his skin. In the darkness, she found his eyes. They were alien, cold and glazed over—utterly unfeeling. The longer she stared at them, the weaker she felt.

She hesitated too long. The angel took this opportunity, and she was flung upwards with the sprouting of his wings; each wing spanning a great distance of her chamber. He holstered his blades into his belt, and his wings came together to catch her body before she crashed. She landed on soft, sturdy feathers.

“My name is Michael,” he repeated, “I knew your father.”

He lowered his wings, and Xanthippe slid onto her feet. She allowed herself a moment of stillness, and then circled the angel slowly, examining his wings. His head followed her movements.

“You should have announced yourself,” she said.

“I notified Uriel,” Michael said.

He was different, not just inhuman, but different from every other angelic creature she’d ever met, or heard of. His stance alone was evident enough; a towering creature of height and power. He was lean and slender—graceful perhaps—but he stood like he was rooted to the earth, like nothing could conquer him. His skin was pale, and she imagined it was also cold to the touch. And his face; stoic and impassive. Even his eyes. There was nothing to suggest that he was even alive.

This is what she imagined a demon might look like—what Gabriel might have looked like.

“How did he die?” Xanthippe asked, information they hadn’t yet been privy to.

Completely forgetting herself, she reached out and brushed her fingertips over Michael’s thick black feathers. Something happened—he bristled, stilled, like his body of steel sharpened somehow. His wings closed in on themselves and disappeared into his jacket.

Xanthippe inhaled.

Michael turned to face her. “We faced Gabriel and his angels on the plains of Colorado, and there was an explosion. Your father fought until the very end. He died in my arms, and he wanted you to know how much he loved you.” There could have been something sentimental about his words, but his tone—low and controlled—made that inscrutable.

Xanthippe was suddenly aware of how exposed she was—clad in nothing but undergarments, thin wraps of material that clung to her breasts, trailed down her exposed stomach and bound around her hips and thighs. It wasn’t a sense of embarrassment – nudity was nothing new to Helena, but these were not socially acceptable conditions.

“Why are you here?” Xanthippe backed away from him, slowly and with deliberate baiting.

For the first time that Xanthippe saw, Michael allowed his eyes to observe her body. She was not unaffected by the tingle of his gaze—which irritated her—however his eyebrows seemed to furrow in response, and she remained the quiet victor. He, it seemed, was more affected.

“I’ve come to see the divine markings,” Michael said impassively.

“You’ve seen them a thousand times,” Xanthippe said.

“As I suspected, they’re not the same marks as your father’s,” Michael took several steps towards her. “Those marks were for him, and these are for you. Different messages, but wholly as divine.”

“You demand a viewing of my body?” Xanthippe spat. Her glare was unyielding – he might have been an angel but he was no stranger to the arrogance of man: demanding and taking that which was not his to possess.

“Yes,” Michael said, without a trace of malice, or sympathy, or any emotion at all.

“Get out,” she hissed, turning away.

“Humanity needs you—”

“That’s enough, Michael.”

Xanthippe saw the shadows of Evelyn and Uriel at her chamber entrance and wondered how long they’d been standing there.

Uriel continued, “Your message held the implication that you would to be arriving to _us_ , not our ward.”

“There isn’t time,” Michel said. “I need to see the marks.”

“You can’t read them,” Evelyn interjected. “Your presence behind our walls is a grace we honour you with, not something you are owed.”

“The marks are new, different.” Michael spoke directly to his sister. “That means that Father is still alive, somehow. He’ll come home when the Saviour ends this war.”

“Except he didn’t leave because of the war, did he?” Xanthippe made strides toward him, “He disappeared, and _then_ your overzealous psychotic other half destroyed my people and my planet. Which begs the question: if you don’t really know why he left, what makes you think these markings are going to bring him back?”

Michael bore down at her, and for the first time she saw something that implied he was indeed a sentient creature: anger.

She continued. “And—what makes you think he’ll even want to come back? If, he’s not already dead.”

“Xanthippe,” Uriel scolded her.

Xanthippe held eye contact with Michael, the corners of her lips inclined. She was baiting him, and she knew inside, he was seething.

She was almost there.

She closed the distance between them, and laid a palm over his chest, expecting coldness but feeling warmth. She whispered, “If I was your father, I would be ashamed of my creations, and I would never return.”

Without warning, Michael unfurled his wings, and Xanthippe took a step backwards.

“Michael!” Uriel screamed.

Michael wrapped his arms around Xanthippe’s waist and crushed his body against hers. Without hesitation, he sped towards the open balcony and took flight from the tower, soaring into the night sky with Xanthippe.

Evelyn and Uriel raced to the balcony, watching them in the sky. Uriel unleashed her wings—

“No, my love,” Evelyn grabbed Uriel’s arm, “you can’t leave Helena unprotected.”

Uriel gasped, horror-struck. “But Xan—”

“He’ll protect her,” Evelyn said, “And I have a feeling we know exactly where he’s taking her. Don’t worry, we’ve trained her well. She’ll return to us.”

“How can you be so sure?” Uriel asked.

“I have faith.”

 

 

X

 

 

At some point during their celestial journey through the air, Xanthippe passed out.

When she awoke, she was greeted by the sight of an early morning sky. Sitting upright, she surveyed the room. She appeared to be alone, in someone’s circular bed, wrapped in soft cotton sheets.

She remembered instantly: Michael had tackled her in a fit of rage and dragged her into the sky. She remembered the steeliness of his body and the pressure of the wind around her. He took her to wondrous heights, and _knew_ she’d never be able to stay conscious.

 _Bastard_.

With more panic than she liked, she checked her clothed body, made sure she hadn’t been interfered with, and then clambered from the bed to the floor. Xanthippe walked to the windows and pressed her palms against them.

The view was—different. She wasn’t in Helena anymore.

Helena was a paradise of beauty and nature, adorned with art and statues and rainbow murals and street dancing and the worship of the feminine spirit, and _here_ —here was a city of material wealth and economy and poverty. A diseased land.

“Finally—you’re awake.”

Xanthippe spun around and saw Michael, standing across the room. Righteous, arrogant anger unfurled inside her chest, and she grabbed the closest thing to her—a vase—and hurled it towards the Archangel. The vase landed a few yards short of him; emotions were a distraction, of course but the release was helpful.

“ _That_ , was a gift,” Michael said. “Please, control yourself.”

Xanthippe was furious. He—an angel, a man—had laid hands on her. “ _You_ didn’t control yourself when you kidnapped me; Evelyn’s _ward_ , Uriel’s charge. You’re going to regret that, bringing me to this hellhole—”

“Your mother wanted you here for the funeral,” Michael interrupted. “You’ll be returned to Helena shortly.”

“Vega,” Xanthippe spat the word like poison, returning to the view.

“Your father’s home,” said Michael. “Your mother’s home. You were born here.”

The silence dragged.

“I’ve been thinking—” Xanthippe said. She turned, and once again he was right there. He made no noise when he walked, like he didn’t exist. “—Maybe Gabriel’s not the Archangel I should be afraid of.”

Michael inclined his head in thought. “Maybe.”

“You looked at the marks while I was unconscious?” Xanthippe asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

Xanthippe bit the inside of her cheek. _Control yourself._

Michael, as if sensing her turmoil, said, “I didn’t undress you. I didn’t touch you. I’ve committed awful atrocities in my lifetime, but I would _never_ commit the lowest of all sins.”

“And yet I fear you nonetheless.” She stated.

Michael turned away, gesturing to the chair nearby. “Your mother sent over some clothes. She’d like you to join her for breakfast.”

“I hope it covers _every_ inch of skin,” Xanthippe said, resentfully. Despite being the Chosen One’s daughter, she had lived a relatively free life, in Helena. And she’d never had to hide her own skin.

Michael nodded. He turned to leave—

“Mikael,” Xanthippe spoke his original name, almost experimentally.

He halted but didn’t turn. Maybe it was something in her tone that he didn’t want to face.

“You’re going to regret bringing me here. I promise you.”

 

 

X

 

 

Xanthippe didn’t remember Vega, for all the hours she spent there as a new-born, before Uriel took her to Helena.

Walking through the Riesen home was as alien to her as Michael was to humans. She only saw her mother whenever she visited Helena on ‘diplomatic business’ but it had been quite some years since their last encounter. Five, to be precise.

Her mother, who had hidden her pregnancy quite well despite being the newly appointed Lady of the City at the time, was truly heartbroken to give her up according to Uriel, but it was the right thing to do. Her mother could not lead the people and raise the Chosen one’s baby at the same time. If the truth got out, Gabriel would’ve used her against her father. Only those closest to them knew the truth.

It was a pity that Michael was one of them.

“Xan,” her mother greeted her warmly, with parted lips and eyes that shone.

Xanthippe walked towards the dining table, grateful that it was just her mother she was meeting. She’d never met her three half-siblings and had no desire to do so.

“Claire,” Xanthippe returned a civil smile. She hadn’t expected her mother to embrace her with both arms. It had been quite some time since she’d been hugged by the woman who birthed her.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Claire said, “though I wish it was on better times. You look radiant. An old dress of mine from my prime.”

Xanthippe doubted her mother had ever left her prime. The Lady of the City was verging into her forties but—not unlike Evelyn—she was as youthful as ever, ageless in a sense. The dress in question was silk white, fully sleeved and long, covering every inch of marked skin. It was loose, but restrictive: if she needed to fight, the dress would rip.

“And your hair,” Claire admired the thick intricate braiding of Xanthippe’s long dark blonde hair, intertwined with flowers. She reached out to touch them—

“Please don’t,” Xanthippe stepped away, “Helena’s customs. The braids are not to be touched.”

Claire retracted her hand and blinked. It was evident she didn’t know the first thing about her own daughter. Once she’d regained composure, she gestured to the dining table. “Come. Sit.”

Xanthippe sat across from Claire and gazed at the table. It was decorated by bowls and plates of luxurious food; some the likes she’d never seen before. So many croissants and _chocolate_. The people of Helena were accustomed to lean poultry, vegetables and fruit. Maple sugar treats were the only form of desert and infrequently served. You couldn’t train an army of warriors on sugar.

“You’ve been enjoying your time in Helena, then?” Claire asked, carefully.

Xanthippe paused. Her mother said that like Helena was a vacation, and Vega was coming home. “Of course, it’s my home.”

Claire smiled—strained. “I know we haven’t spent much time together recently, and that’s my fault. Tommen’s business deal with David Whele, and the city’s adjustment to the new bartering system, it’s been a stressful five years. But that’s not an excuse for not making time for you, I know. I’m sorry. I want you to know—if there was any other way, I would have done it. _We_ would have done it; your father and I.”

Xanthippe was more grateful to hear those words than she had imagined, but the sentiment fell short of complete vindication. But she was raised with dignity, so she said “Thank you, that means a lot to me.”

Claire’s smile was broader than she remembered it. “The last time I saw you, you were still blossoming, but now, you’re a fine young woman. Beautiful and graceful in all the ways I could have hoped for.”

Not for the first time that day, Xanthippe’s skin itched.

“And I’m glad you agreed to come,” Claire added, “Missing your father’s funeral would have haunted you until the end of your days. Trust me, I know. Perhaps, afterwards, we can talk about making your stay a little more permanent.”

Xanthippe blinked. “Excuse me?”

Claire swallowed from her wine glass. “This is your rightful home, and now that your father is dead—rest in peace—there’s nothing to stop you from coming home. You’d probably be safer here now. Gabriel suspects a second Saviour, and eventually he will find you.”

There it was. One of the many reasons why Claire stopped visiting; they didn’t have anything in common.

“Respectfully, no,” Xanthippe said without preamble.

Her mother’s obsession with the greater good proceeded all other things, and Xanthippe had suspected that since the Chosen One was dead, her mother’s intentions to save humanity would fall to her. It was just another reason why she hadn’t wanted to visit Vega in the first place.

Claire blinked. “Xan, we can discuss this later—”

“Absolutely not,” Xanthippe interrupted her. “With all due respect, Evelyn and Uriel are more than capable of keeping me safe, as they have done for the last twenty three years. And, this city is a parasite on humanity. Helena is a sanctuary for the soul. This city festers corruption of the divine. There is _nothing_ for me here.”

Claire snapped backwards, like she’d been slapped. She almost swallowed her own tongue, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Xanthippe, that’s not true.”

“I apologise for the offense caused,” Xanthippe said sincerely, “but I speak the truth.” She paused and said, “I’d like to visit the market today. And I’d like to see his body before the funeral.”

Claire quickly devoured the last of her wine. “Of course. Michael will escort you.”

Xanthippe stilled. “That won’t be necessary. Nobody knows who I am here, and with the markings covered, I’ll be invisible.”

Claire looked scornful, for the first time. “I said Michael will escort you. While you’re here, you’re under his protection, as was your father.”

Xanthippe indulged her inner demon. “And look how well _that_ turned out.”

They stared across the table, perhaps, _finally_ , seeing each other for the first time. Her was mother was not evil; just unabashedly human—selfish and arrogant and so very flawed.

Likewise, Xanthippe was not the second or third coming, or the Chosen One. She was just a girl.

“Well, you should enjoy your time here while you can,” Claire said, drawing her eyes away.

Xanthippe filled her bowl with every piece of fruit available to her, and a few chocolate covered raisins.

“One last thing,” she said. “I’d like to meet the other angel who protected my dad.”

Claire visibly bristled. “Noma? Why?”

“You may trust Michael,” Xanthippe replied, “but I do not.”

She tasted chocolate—sweet and sugary and _delicious_.

Like Uriel often said: _“The occasional sin is good for the soul.”_

 

 

X

 

 

The market place was abominable.

A dank, festering place of littered, cramped stalls and unwashed people of the city. Poverty was strife in these areas, and Xanthippe had done some research before venturing outside. These people were in the lowest caste: V-1. Another reason why Vega was decades behind Helena. What had become of her mother’s dream to make Vega a republic?

 _The road to hell is paved with good intentions._ Not one of Uriel or Evelyn's sayings.

In Helena, people weren’t ranked or designated, they were treated like equals—even the men—and everyone received basic food and shelter; no matter their usefulness or contribution to the city. Evelyn’s palace was the only regal thing about Helena, but she thought herself no better than anyone else.

“This bothers you?”

The horrors of the marketplace had _almost_ made Xanthippe forget about _him_ , hovering behind her.

Xanthippe ignored him, and said, “I need flowers, and incense.”

Michael led her down the line of stalls, to the last few, hidden in the corners. Xanthippe admired the variety of flowers; all different colours. Her eyes found something she hadn’t seen in years: desert sage.

Her mother’s favourite flower, brought to her in all of her visits. They didn’t have desert sage in Helena.

Michael’s eyes were trained on the people, who had been taught since birth to pretend he didn’t exist.

Not looking at him, Xanthippe said, “It attracts more attention to me, doesn’t it? Having _you_ escort me.”

“Perhaps,” Michael said, arms behind his back, rooted to the ground like a statue. “But the people think you’re one of Helena’s Advisors, sent here to discuss business in Evelyn’s place. Apparently she’s sickly.”

“My mother loves her stories, doesn’t she?” Xanthippe mumbled.

After several long moments of quiet, she said, daringly, “I’m surprised you’re even allowed back into this city, considering what you did.”

If Michael heard her words, he had no visible reaction.

Xanthippe continued, “Fraternizing with a Consul of the state, freeing your brother Gabriel from his prison, and then massacring five innocent people, your girlfriend included.”

Michael finally turned his head to look at her.

“I asked around,” she explained. “The people don’t forget. Neither do I.”

“Did they tell you I was responsible for the Flood?” said Michael. “That I almost slaughtered the whole of mankind, several thousand years ago?”

“No.”

“Well, you should know all the evils of which you speak,” Michael continued, “if there is to be any merit to them. Like I said, I’ve committed awful atrocities.”

“Then how could my father possibly trust you?” Xanthippe struggled with her ability to understand it—him, _everything_.

“Because I was his protector,” Michael said, like it was obvious. “I would have died for him.”

“Then why didn’t you?” she spat.

“You should blame me for his death,” Michael agreed, “But _don’t_ let your anger consume you. The last person who indulged their grief—started a war.”

 A pause, then Xanthippe said, “I need you to arrange something for me.”

“I thought you didn’t trust me?” Michael asked, and there something goading—almost childlike, about his tone.

Xanthippe ignored him, “I need you to arrange a meeting with Noma. I want to talk to her. I asked, but I get the feeling my mother wouldn’t oblige.”

Michael furrowed his brows. “I can’t make any promises. Unlike myself, Noma wasn’t cleared for re-entry into Vega.”

Xanthippe exhaled, and refocused her attention to the flowers, collecting as many as possible. She paid for the bundle of flowers, which were wrapped in a thin layer of paper, and tipped the stall owner.

She began to walk around the market again, for the first time admiring the differences instead of pitying them. Michael fell into step behind her.

“Tell me about him,” Xanthippe said.

“Your father?” Michael appeared collected, but Xanthippe suspected he could easily be undone with just the _right_ words.

“Your brother,” she said, flicking through a bundle of second hand books, “Gabriel.”

Michael was quiet.

“Uriel doesn’t speak of him often,” she added, “and you even less, but she calls him The Heart, and I always wondered why.”

“Desires of the heart are the least pure,” Michael replied, eventually. His voice was especially low and dry. “The heart wants many things, not all good, not all bad. Gabriel was once a lover of man, until our father left, and that broke his heart.”

Xanthippe stilled. It was the closest she’d ever come to understanding Gabriel’s persecution of her kind. “Ah. So he rules with his heart, and not his head.”

Michael looked up to the sky, as if he was anticipating something.

“What do they call you?” she asked him.

Michael levelled his gaze, “The Sword.”

Xanthippe smiled, unfeeling.

Just then, the clouds unleashed a thunderous roar, and a thick layer of rain barreled down on them. Instantly, everything was wet.

Xanthippe watched in horror, as the silk white material of her dress clung to every crevice of skin, becoming see-through. The marks were visible, and the marketplace was overcrowded with people trying to escape the rain. If she moved now, drew attention to herself, someone would definitely see.

It happened too quickly for her to understand, but Michael had unleashed his wings and curled them around her, shielding her from the rain and the marketplace. Xanthippe braced herself inside Michael’s cocoon, palm flat against his feathers. They were heavy and deadly, but nonetheless soft. Somehow, she’d never been this fascinated with Uriel’s dark wings.

Around them, the desperation to close the stalls and protect the produce was overwhelming. The rain fell harder, turning to hail. Movements were quick, clambering. They _had_ to escape, or risk someone seeing the marks.

“Michael,” Xanthippe said, clutching the side of his wing.

Michael spun her around, pressing her back to his front. He wrapped both arms around her waist and opened his wings. They were in the air, flying away from the market and soaring into the sky. The rain continued to fall. Xanthippe clung to the bundle of flowers, peering down at the city.

Not the first time that week, she was in the air, but the view was much more spectacular, now that she was in a position to see it. She had to admit—reluctantly—the city had its beauty: groomed green grass, white marbled palaces, statues. They lowered their position, and the wind was gentler against her face.

Still, her heartbeat clambered to keep the pace inside her chest. Adrenaline coursed throughout her veins – this was _intoxicating_. They were headed in the direction of a tall freestanding tower that encompassed the city.

As they got closer Xanthippe recognised the inside as Michael’s chambers. They flew through an open window and landed on the ground. She could feel herself swaying with the disorientation already and was almost grateful that Michael hadn’t released her yet. Her ears were ringing—

“You must _desist_ that,” Michael growled.

He released her, and unable to keep her legs up, she buckled to the ground. He paced angrily, beads of water spraying with his movements. His wings were closed, and outside, the rain continued to pour.

“Please,” Xanthippe said through gritted teeth, “Enlighten me.” She remained on her knees.

“ _You_ ,” Michael faced her, tone accusatory. “You _keep_ touching my wings. I may have looked at your marks, but I didn’t violate your personal space.”

Inside, she reeled. “I suppose the kidnapping was for fun?”

“Your mother demanded it,” Michael snapped, “it was the only way I was allowed back into the city, it was the only way I could attend your father’s funeral—”

“I don’t care,” Xanthippe barked. “You can’t possibly compare your _wings_ to my _person_.”

“The Divine Feminine doesn’t teach equality?” Michael’s tone was low and cold. “My wings _are_ my person.”

Xanthippe stared at him. “It unnerves you.” She said this slowly, almost to herself.

Michael regarded her wearily. “Can you stand?” his anger had dissipated, and his wall of steel was once again impenetrable.

She remained quiet, and pushed herself onto her feet. The carpet was soaked beneath her, and the silk white dress clung to every crevice of skin. He stared at the outline of her body: the curve of her breasts and hardened nipples, the slope of smooth abdomen and wide hips.

Somehow, she understood. “It means something, doesn’t it? If someone touches your wings?”

Michael nodded, curt. “It is one of the most intimate acts an angel can allow.”

Xanthippe couldn’t form words. Uriel seemed so human she always forgot she wasn’t, but Michael was so unbearably alien, and she struggled to imagine him allowing anyone to be intimate with him—in any capacity.

“You can wait here until your clothes dry,” Michael said. “The archangel corps will escort you back to House Riesen.”

Xanthippe said nothing.

He strode towards the open window and walked off the edge, falling from sight. She ran to the window and crouched, and watched his body plummet through the rain. Then, his wings sprouted and carried him upwards with the wind.

She was awestruck, and cold.

 

 

X

 

 

Really, it shouldn’t have bothered her.

She’d seen so many dead bodies; washed them, prayed for each and every one. But this was so intrinsically different. Perhaps because this was one half of her direct lineage.

Xanthippe was crouched on the floor, at the bed’s edge, staring at the peaceful, lifeless corpse of Alex Lannon. He was covered by a thick black sheet of cloth, from his collar bone to his knees. He looked different than the last time she’d seen him; older now obviously, with more wrinkles and less wounds. She expected to feel a sense of familiarity about him, but nothing festered beneath the surface.

Still, Helena had ingrained in her a sense of respect for the dead, so she began to wash his legs; tried to imagine them alive and running after her. A wave of emotion welled inside her chest, with tears that threatened to fall. She was mourning for the man she never knew. She washed his feet; tried to imagine them as anchors he used every day.

Xanthippe sprinkled the flower petals over him, and placed one petal on each closed eyelid. She hummed to herself, as she washed his arms and hands, trying desperately to imagine them with an ounce of animation. He would have been animated, she thought. With boundless energy and feet that wouldn’t stay still.

She burned the incense one at a time; lavender for luck, cinnamon for protection, myrrh for guidance, and spread the therapeutic fumes across his body.

She recited, quietly: “ _Mother of life and mercy, take this soul to your breast, let him find peace in the hereafter. To the All Mother I pray. Let it be so._ ”

In Helena, after a simple ceremony of prayer with gathered loved ones, the body would be returned to the ocean; sent back to the earth for the All Mother to consume. But, her father had been a follower of superstitious tradition, and so he would be burned, and his ashes scattered.

“When Father returns,” Xanthippe said; words that didn’t hold any merit to her, but perhaps honoured the fallen man that had sacrificed his entire life for a God she didn't believe in.

Just as Xanthippe was rising, a knock sounded from the other side of the door. She turned away, pulled her sleeves all the way down and said, “Come in.” She half-expected her mother, or one of the house staff, or even Michael.

It was a man she was unaccustomed to; a spry elder man, of average height and thinning hair. He was dressed smartly, and while his face was worn from age, his eyes gleamed with ferocity. He walked into the room like it was his God given right—an arrogant man—but with an air of invaluable knowledge. For the stranger, the two came hand in hand.

“We haven’t been introduced,” the man said, his accent nasal and different from the people of Vega. She forgot: there were still people alive who had lived before this time of war and knowledge of angels. “My name is David Whele.”

Xanthippe observed him. _David Whele._ His name was familiar—she’d heard Evelyn and Uriel discuss him before—but she didn’t know enough to access him accurately. “What can I do for you, Mr Whele?” blunt and to the point, just as Evelyn taught her, because a man like that doesn’t introduce himself to anybody for nothing.

David laughed – short and dry. “Evelyn does like prodigies. You’re quite alike.”

“Thank you.”

“And only a fool would think that’s a compliment,” David patted his head with a hand-stitched pocket square. For the first time since his intrusion did he look at the bed and acknowledge her father’s corpse. “Now that’s a real shame.” He drawled.

Xanthippe straightened. This was a man who had seen many dead bodies in his lifetime, and was most likely the reason they were dead.

“You knew the deceased?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Of course not,” she said evenly, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “Evelyn was upset to hear of his passing. I’m merely expressing her condolences.”

“Right,” David waved his hand at the body. “That ‘All Mother’ crap, with the incense and the flowers and the ocean. Religion is tedious, don’t you agree?”

“No,” she said simply. “Helena doesn’t practice religion. It practices faith.”

“I lost that a long time ago,” David confessed. He hadn’t taken his eyes from the corpse. “He’s in better shape considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering he died in an explosion,” David guffawed, but the laugh was free from humour. “Or so that traitorous black feathered peacock says. With all due respect to Lady Riesen—” in a tone that implied no respect at all, “—she was a fool to allow him back behind these walls. She’s lucky the city didn’t revolt, and that’s only because everybody is too preoccupied with her backwards politics as of late.”

“Get to the point, Mr Whele,” Xanthippe said sharply. “Surely you didn’t come here to discuss the Lady Riesen’s politics.”

“Certainly _not_ ,” David agreed. “I was hoping I could barter your trust, and in return you would receive mine, with benefits.”

“What would you like to barter?” Xanthippe asked.

“I can make you rich,” David said, “if you are ever struck with the urge to divulge any and all information about Helena.”

“You mean Evelyn,” she leveled. She remembered little from Evelyn and Uriel’s conversation about the snake of a man that was David Whele, but he still didn’t know who the Queen of Helena really was, and that had riled him all these years.

David seemed to pale. “Yes. _Some_ years ago, I was told that Evelyn’s head had been delivered to my house, and that the woman who orchestrated these events was called Arika. Then, she disappeared from the city walls and was never seen again. From that point on, Helena only did business with Lady Riesen, but the Queen’s name didn’t change, _Evelyn_ was still in charge so—” he pocketed his handkerchief, “—that begs the question: does Helena have an imposter now, or did I house an imposter, all those years ago?”

“It would bother you, wouldn’t it—” Xanthippe said, “—if you went to your grave without knowing the truth?”

The silence stretched.

“It’s a pity you’re not religious,” She walked to the door, “someone like you, with years of blood on your hands, I imagine you could use some divine intervention.”

“I can offer you whatever you want,” David said, in a pathetic last attempt.

She looked down on him. “You—” she laughed, “—nothing _you_ have to offer is of any interest to me. I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Whele, but I was raised with honour, therefore I must not lie.”

She allowed herself one last look at her father’s body, before departing the room.

 

 

X

 

 

“Xanthippe.”

It was not a greeting or a request, but a demand. It was also the first time Michael had ever said her name. Until then, she doubted he even knew it.

“Unless you’ve come to take me home, go _away._ ”

“Your mother was panicked,” Michael said, disapprovingly, “She thought something had happened to you.”

Xanthippe exhaled. So she hadn’t told anybody she was going to sneak past the Archangel corp soldiers and venture onto the Riesen palace roof, to star gaze and wish she was back home in her ivory tower. How foolish; to think she couldn’t be found on a rooftop when her mother had assigned a glorified pigeon to watch over her.

David Whele’s words came back to haunt her: “ _Traitorous black feathered peacock._ ”

“And you most certainly shouldn’t be drinking _that_.” His eyes sharpened at the bottle of whiskey in her hands.

“I’ll drink whatever I damn well please,” Xanthippe said, too pleasantly, and swigged from the bottle.

Michael sighed and took a seat next to her.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped.

“What I promised your father I’d do as he lay dying in my arms: to protect you.” Michael’s words had never been so blunt and his tone so wary.

“I don’t need your protection,” Xanthippe insisted, and it was goddamn true. She didn’t need anybody’s protection, because she was most certainly _not_ following in her father’s footsteps to high tail it across the world in a hummer truck with two hell’s angels.

“You think you have no part in this war,” he stated. “You think Gabriel will just leave you alone.”

“Well, if he never finds out about me, yes.”

“He will,” Michael said, low. “If he hasn’t already.”

“And _if_ that day shall come,” Xanthippe kept her gaze straight ahead, “then I’ll tell him what I’m telling you: screw the war.”

“You could end this bloodshed,” Michael’s chest heaved with the weight of the world, “you could save the whole of humanity, and bring my father back—”

“And what of my father?” She interrupted coldly. “Is this the empowered speech you gave him? The one that made him abandon me and my mother, the one that he sacrificed a normal life for? The one he died for? It’s not going to work on me, because there’s one very fundamental difference between my father and I,” She brought the whiskey bottle to her lips, “I—don’t—care.”

Michael turned to stare at her; as if he were _seeing_ her for the very first time.

“In my opinion, humanity doesn’t deserve to be saved,” Xanthippe said, “and neither does your kind. And to be frank, Archangel, after everything Uriel’s told me about your father, I doubt he even exists.”

“He doubts your existence also.” Michael said.

A wave of mortal fragility rocked her. She lowered the bottle and stared up at the sky. She had only ever known this world: the one with angels and demons and monsters that lurked in the dark. She had only ever known Helena and her safe tower, and she had only ever known the Divine Feminine.

“I sense an unasked question on your lips.” He said, abruptly ending their prolonged silence.

“Your Father,” said Xanthippe, quietly at first, “He created you and me, and this world?”

Michael nodded, “And all the dimensions within this world. The angels, we lived in a celestial plane, we didn’t exist in physical forms. We each had our own ethereal consciousness, and we were connected, like pieces of a larger puzzle. When our Father disappeared, our home was darker and colder, but not without hope. Gabriel was the first to abandon it, and soon after the others followed.”

“How did you get that body?” she asked, more curiously than she would have liked.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “They were given to us, a gift from our Father. He allowed us to take physical form, so we could complete his work on Earth.”

“Could you go back?”

“Yes, but there’s nothing there now.” Michael exhaled, “When our Father left, our connection—something happened to it. It shattered. Without him, it was like we were nothing but lost wandering souls without a purpose.”

Xanthippe held a hand over her mouth. She struggled to hear his words, struggled to believe him. She lay on her back and stared up at the sky. Every night, it was harder to see the stars.

“That causes you distress?” Michael looked down at her.

“So there is an afterlife?” she countered his question with another one of her own. “There’s a heaven?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, “I’ve never died.”

“But your home—”

“My homeland is not Heaven, though it is commonly mistaken for it. People assume that angels are immortal, but that would go against everything my Father taught about life. Without death, there can be no life. I don’t know what awaits mankind beyond this world, just like I don’t know what awaits me.”

“So you have an expiry date too?” _That_ made her feel slightly better.

“Yes, but not for another ten thousand years or so.”

“Oh.” Perhaps not that much better. “I don’t believe in Heaven.”

Michael swivelled with ease, to stare down at her. “But you believe in Hell?”

“I’m in it.” Xanthippe didn’t look at him when she replied, but her voice almost broke all the same.

“One thing I’ve learned during my time on Earth—” Michael began, “If humans weren’t so preoccupied with the insane idea that my Father is responsible for everything in this universe and all the universes besides it, they’d have a much better time adjusting to the idea of a Maker that is just as complex and flawed as they are.”

“So your Father is younger than the universe?”

“Of course,” Michael said, rather obnoxiously. “He created you, just as he was created.”

Xanthippe propped herself onto her elbows. “So you don’t really know any more than we do.” She couldn’t help but feel sinfully smug.

Michael practically glowered at her. “I know a great deal.”

She exhaled, and looked away from him. “What’s the difference, between our world and yours?”

He observed the city around them, before answering. “I wanted for nothing, everything I needed I was given. I was complete. But it wasn't enough. I experienced this world, and I experienced want and bloodlust and everything that causes the soul to suffer. And every time I left I wanted to come back. Humans are so obsessed with Heaven and Hell; they even don’t even realise they’re living in the true anomaly.”

“This world is no paradise,” Xanthippe said.

“No,” Michael agreed, “Though Gabriel thinks otherwise. That’s how I know he’s unreachable.”

“I met a man today.” She said, suddenly.

Michael tilted his head.

“David Whele,” she said his name slowly, “He said some interesting things.”

“David Whele is a viper among men,” Michael said vehemently.

“He expected my father to look worse, because of the explosion,” Xanthippe kept her eyes trained on him, for the slightest change or twitch or movement.

Michael’s angular cheeks hollowed, and his eyes seemed to blacken. “He doubts the validity of my word?”

“Among other things,” she sat upright, “yes.”

“And do you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Xanthippe said.

Michael picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap and took a swig.

“It was dawn. Noma was wounded; had one of her wings pinned beneath Empyrean steel, she couldn’t move. During our time on the road, we’d acquired a massing of followers from New Delphi. Eight-balls, who wanted to side with the Saviour and see the return of our Father. Gabriel’s army decimated ours. It was a bloodbath.

“My brother was _still_ trying to win your father over to his side. I was fighting four higher angels and Furiad, a power. Alex had assembled several bombs, and he hoped that if he got close enough to Gabriel, he could end this war. It was a risk he was willing to take. He was tired, and he just wanted it to be over.

“He fought with Gabriel in close quarter combat; they sparred with Empyrean blades. Gabriel was wounded, and Alex was able to set up the bombs, but he couldn’t escape in time. And he thought the sacrifice was worth it; if it meant saving humanity.”

“Except he didn’t,” Xanthippe said dryly.

“You will never be able to understand the impact your father made to the war,” said Michael, “This world is safer than the one he was born into, and that’s because of him and his sacrifices.”

Michael’s voice was like a separate entity. He spoke every word that left his lips as if it were of grave importance, with a weight and severity that remained impervious to anyone graced with its presence. She hadn’t been able to appreciate it; until that moment.

Tears flourished from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, but his expression remained stoic, like he wasn’t even aware of them. She knew then that her assumptions of Michael had been ignorant; he wasn’t unfeeling or without emotion, he was utterly alive, but in a way that she had never encountered before.

“To answer your indirect question,” Michael added, “Your father’s body has been reassembled, as best it could.”

The alcohol burned a trail in her throat, and her stomach clenched violently. Immediately, she regretted asking.

“It’s cold,” he said. “You should get some rest. The funeral will be exhausting.”

For once, Xanthippe made no arguments. She rose to her feet and looked down upon the Archangel.

Quietly, she said, “I’ve been thinking, about your father. Maybe it’s not us he’s trying to teach, maybe it’s you—your kind. Maybe these markings will continue to be passed from person to person until you learn what you need to.”

“And what’s that?”

“That there is no Saviour of mankind. The only person we can save is ourselves.”

 

 

X

 

TBC 


End file.
